


Begrudgingly, Yes

by kreiderrider



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25268221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kreiderrider/pseuds/kreiderrider
Summary: All Ryan Lindgren does is antagonize you-- although he has your back in every situation, and is also oddly endearing. You can't decide whether you want to hit him or fuck him. It occurs to you, one night while playing pool, that the answer may be both.
Relationships: Ryan Lindgren/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Begrudgingly, Yes

Your back hit the wall with such force that a picture frame in the other room fell, hit the ground, and shattered. Ryan’s lips met yours with equal force, your head pinned against the wall, his hands traveling down your arms, and instead of seizing your wrists, he laced his fingers with yours, an incongruous gesture of tenderness.

 _Oh,_ you thought, _so that’s how this is going to be._

You were good friends with Adam Fox and his girlfriend, and ever since he’d joined the Rangers and Ryan Lindgren started being a regular presence at gatherings and outings, you couldn’t decide whether you wanted to punch him or fuck him. He was infuriating, and seemed to direct most of it at you, in some fucked up junior-high “you tease the girl you like” act. It was never insulting or demeaning, just– maddening. Like that time when you’d dyed your hair a cherry red and he spent the entire night giving you every single red M&M from the dish on the table. Every one. Even interrupting conversations to present you with them. On the other hand, he actually straight-up punched a creepy guy in a bar who’d grabbed your ass, and likely would have messed him up further had Adam not intervened. He got up in the face of an acquaintance who was mansplaining hockey to you at Adam’s last birthday party, demanding to know who made him an authority. He was quick-tempered, but somehow– at the same time– incredibly endearing.

You wanted, you had decided recently, to punch him AND fuck him.

It had come to a head tonight. The two of you wound up playing pool against Adam and his girlfriend. As usual, he was being insufferable– whispering in your ear as you lined up a shot, making jokes about the way you handled balls, and after one particularly ninety-degree bend over the table to end the game and sink the eight-ball, you turned to see that he was hard.

“Is that a pool cue in your pocket,” you said, smirking, “or are you happy to see me?”

You thought you’d embarrass him. Instead, he smiled coolly, and the corners of his mouth lifted. “I’m happy to see you.”

You _definitely_ wanted to punch him and fuck him.

You racked up the balls, sure you were making a mistake here, but not giving a shit. “You against me,” you said. “You win, I’ll let you take me home.”

“And if you win?”

“You let me take you home.”

He smirked. You took a moment to really look at his face; a little patch of yellow and red persisted under his right eye, a remnant of the fistfight he’d been in against Nazem Kadri a week or so ago. You wondered how many bruises he had beneath the henley he wore, which clung to his body a _little_ too tightly.

Maddeningly, he won the game, and you took a cab back to his place. You said little to each other on the way. Right after he gave the driver his address, he rested his hand on your inner thigh. “How rough do you like it?” he asked.

You met his gaze. “Destroy me,” you said.

His only response was a slow, devious grin. His hand didn’t move from your thigh for the rest of the cab ride, and you were aching for those fingers to feel how wet they were making you.

You couldn’t help yourself; your body was out of your control. Your thighs and everything between them were contracting, pulsing. Ryan slid his hand a little closer to the center and leaned over to whisper in your ear.

“I make you wet, don’t I? I bet if I reached inside, you’d be dripping for me. Slippery and ready for me to fuck you, aren’t you?”

You hated that it was true. “Yes,” you admitted. “But you’ve been hard since the pool hall, you fucker.”

He shrugged. “When you see something you want, you react.”

“I wish I could kiss you right now just so you could shut the fuck up.”

And then you were at his building, and rushing upstairs, and kicking off your shoes, and Ryan was fumbling with the lock and grabbing you by the waist and neck and slamming you up against the wall, his mouth claiming yours, his fingers woven through yours. Whatever the hell this was, whatever was going to happen here tonight, you trusted him thoroughly.

One of his hands let yours go and he went for the button and zipper on your jeans, giving himself room to shove his hand down the front of your pants and see how truthful you were being in the cab. You _felt_ him go weak. “I knew it,” he said against your lips. He brought his fingers to his lips and, millimeters from your own, tasted you, with a long lick of his index finger. “You’re as delicious as I’ve always thought you would be.”

“You’re–” He cut you off by sticking his fingers in your mouth, making you taste yourself.

“Lick them clean,” he commanded. You narrowed your eyes, seized his wrist, and took his fingers all the way down your throat, never breaking eye contact.

When you removed them from your mouth, you covered his dick with your palm. “Looks like I’m not the only one ready to go here.”

He pulled you away from the wall by the shoulders and pushed you toward his bedroom.

Tugging you by the arm, he pulled you onto his bed, making you fall on top of him, then rolled you over so you were beneath him.

You reached immediately for his shirt and pulled it off. He reciprocated, and both of you slowed momentarily, mesmerized by the other. He bowed his head and let his tongue appreciate your cleavage; you reached out and traced the bruises on his side. They looked painful. You thought of Ryan punching the creep in the bar. Suddenly, as Ryan worked to unclasp your bra, _you_ wanted to punch Nazem Kadri.

He flung your bra into a corner and ran his big, rough hands up the sides of your body, bringing his fingers to your nipples, and pinched hard. You cried out and arched your back, which brought your body up to his and a smirk to his lips. “There are so many things I could do to you,” he said thoughtfully, rolling your nipples between his fingers, licking the valley between your breasts. “How much can you take?”

You were so _fucking_ sick and tired of his grandstanding for you. “You’re so cute,” you cooed, cradling his cheek in your hand. “You think you’re the one who’s going to wear me out. You think I’m the one who needs to brace myself. You’ve never been on the receiving end of this. You have _no_ idea what you signed up for.”

He raised an eyebrow and, like lightning, you had turned him over on his back. He could barely process what was happening; by the time he tried flipping positions, you already had his pants and boxers off. You ran one long red fingernail up the underside of his dick; he was hard and ready to fuck you, but you weren’t going to let him do that yet.

“Bigger than my fingers,” he noted, still stuck on what you’d done to him in the hallway.

You shrugged. “I’ve had bigger.”

Usually, you started slow, and worked your way up to speed. Usually, you let the orgasm build at a steady pace. But not tonight. Not for Ryan.

You positioned your mouth over his cock and took him all the way down your throat, until your lips pressed against his pelvis, and let your tongue wander for a moment.

“Holy _fuck,_ ” he said, and you smiled around him.

Slowly bringing your lips back to the tip, you made eye contact with him for a moment before deep-throating him at rapid speed. He made a strangled sort of noise and clutched the sheets, his thighs tensing in your grip, and your name left his lips–

–and you stopped, your lips pursed at the tip of his cock as he strained to get back in your mouth.

You obliged. Down you went, letting the head of his cock penetrate your throat, but never closing your mouth, never putting your tongue to his skin. And you held.

You swore you were going to make him beg.

He tried to thrust upward but you dug your nails into his thighs. You withdrew and looked up. “Tough guy can handle haymakers on the ice but not stiletto nails?”

For once, he had no snappy comeback.

“Say please,” you told him.

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Only if you beg for it.” You winked.

He pressed his lips together, jaw locking, his pride not ready to take the hit. You shrugged and pulled the same move again; head in your throat, no up-and-down motion, no mouth, no tongue. You pulled away.

“God _damn_ you.”

“God damn me? After all the shit you pull, you insufferable ass?” Your voice darkened. “Beg me. Say please.” You wrapped your fingers around him and squeezed. “I make you hard, don’t I? I reach down here and you’re _throbbing_ for me. Ready for me to swallow this cock, aren’t you?”

By the sneer on his face, he recognized that you were mocking the speech he made in the taxi. “You are unbearable.”

“So are you.” You licked him and he shivered. “Say it.”

He gritted his teeth. “Please.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“You are such a–”

_“Say it.”_

“Please,” he said, a frustrated sigh accompanying the word. “God, please. Just fucking–”

That was all you needed. You went down on him again, properly, your tongue moving as you went, and he seized the bedsheets in his fists again. You certainly weren’t going to let him come here, but you wanted him below you for a while, at least; and you wanted him to experience your greatest talent.

After a while, you surfaced, and he pulled you by your hair before you could catch your breath. You were still clothed from the waist down and he pulled your jeans and panties off. There was no warning; one moment there was fabric between your legs, the next moment, his tongue replaced it, his arms hooking under your thighs so he could hold you. You knew just what this was about. You teased him. He wasn’t teasing you.

Usually, you preferred a slower start, too, but you were so wet, so sensitive, so on fire for this son of a bitch that you knew you were going to come no matter what. He ate you like he was starving, face pressed tightly against you, tongue dipping inside of your body, until finally the tip of his tongue found your clit and you cried out. You were afraid he was going to take his revenge, that he was going to make you beg, but he seemed to have no interest in that; when you started crying out, he let your thighs go and brought his fingers back to your nipples. The sensations, together, were overwhelming; you clutched at a pillow. “Ryan,” you moaned, and you _felt_ him smile against you. “Ryan, I’m fucking close– God– Ryan–”

He took his fingers away and you groaned loudly, wanting them back, but he wrapped his arms around your thighs again and you braced yourself. You came, shaking against his face, and he allowed you precisely ten seconds to breathe after you’d hit your climax– and then he went down again.

You screamed, half untelligible syllables, half his name. “Ryan,” you finally managed, “I can’t take anymore– I can’t– oh, God, oh–”

His eyes glinted in the dim light. “Say please,” he said, before going back down, eliciting another high-pitched shriek from you.

“Please,” you panted, wishing to God you could have held out longer, knowing you couldn’t.

He surfaced again, briefly. “I’m not convinced…”

Your fist hit the bed. “God damn it, Ryan, please. Please–”

He let you go, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “You taste,” he said, breathing heavily, “so fucking delicious. I could do that for hours. _Hours._ ”

“Some other day,” you panted, realizing only after you said it that you were suggesting this be more than just a one-night-stand. You wouldn’t mind being friends with benefits, you thought.

He climbed over you and kissed your neck, at once tender and violent, his lips soft, his teeth dragging, staking his claim. “You sure you aren’t going to regret this in the morning?” His breath was warm on your ear. “One last chance to tell me to fuck off.”

You wrapped your arms and your legs around him. “I’m one hundred percent sure I’m going to regret this in the morning,” you told him. “And I’m also one hundred percent sure it’s worth it.”

He picked you up– you were surprised for a moment, forgetting you were underneath a professional athlete– and pinned you up against the wall, his dick inside of you, his arms holding you up by the thighs. You tightened your legs around his waist and he fucked into you, his lips on your neck, and you were so sensitive from his tongue that you knew it wouldn’t take long for you to come. You had neglected to tell him how much of a mess you made when you came, and you didn’t realize it until it was too late, and you were coming hard, screaming in his ear, your nails embedded in his back.

He set you down and smeared it around on your thigh. “I like messy girls,” he said, grabbing a few bath towels from the pile of fresh laundry in the basket nearby and putting them on the bed. “Hands and knees.”

You obeyed, still reeling from your orgasm, and you felt his hand on your ass. He ran it in between your legs, rested his palm on your ass, and spanked you hard.

The throaty _mmm_ you gave in response let him know you liked it, and he smacked the other side– and then went back to the other– and the other–

“Don’t stop until I’m red,” you growled, and he grabbed your ass. 

“You going to let me fuck this ass someday?”

“If you say please,” you said matter-of-factly, and you could sense that he was smiling.

When your ass was stinging and hot, he finally let up; and then slid into you again. He had no patience, no will to tease you. You could tell just what he wanted– one more for you, and then he needed– _needed_ – to come.

His hands firmly on your waist, he hammered into you, reaching forward to pull your hair, leaning over to grip your shoulder, letting his hand drift over to circle your neck. He hovered there, wordlessly asking permission.

“Do it,” you spat, on the edge of an orgasm, wanting desperately for him to choke you as he made you come.

His hand tightened on the sides of your neck and you cried out, coming again, and then he brought his hands back to your shoulders, using them for leverage as he didn’t stop. You were overstimulated, crying out, panting, clutching the pillows, turning just in time to see his mouth open and his eyes close and then he was coming too, in long, hot streams inside of you, and you wondered if it hurt under his eye, and you loved and hated him so much.

After you had cleaned up, you went back into his room to find your clothes. You were zipping up your jeans when Ryan came back into the room, a towel around his waist, a bathrobe in his hand. “Oh,” he said.

You stopped. “What?”

He shrugged. “I brought the robe for you.”

You stared blankly at him.

“I thought… you know. I thought maybe you could stay the night.” A tiny, mischievous smile appeared on his face. “I have a big bag of M&Ms. I’m happy to pick out all of the red ones for you.”

You flew at him, and he ran, and you tackled him onto the bed. “What the fuck, Ryan. You are the most irritating son of a bitch on the planet. Why do I like you?” You sat up and took off your shirt. He was laughing. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

“So you like me,” he said.

“If there was ever a love-hate relationship,” you began.

“Oh, so you _love_ me,” he amended, waggling his eyebrows, and you groaned.

“Okay, step it back, or I _am_ leaving.” You were smiling as you shed the rest of your clothes and wrapped yourself up in his robe. It was warm, and soft, and smelled like him. He put an arm around you, and you allowed him to lead you out to the kitchen.

This, you thought, was going to be the best– or worst– decision you’d ever made.


End file.
